CATHEDRAL
by Michael Barretta
Amid all the gems given us by Will Rogers, one particular quote has stuck with me through my entire life and has often given a much needed push from time to time: “Even if you’re on the right track, you’ll get run over if you just sit there.” Mike Barretta’s winning story applies this wisdom to our struggle to explore space. Sometimes humanity itself needs a not so gentle push and perhaps just a little . . . subterfuge.
I. Conspiracy Theory
“GENTLEMEN . . . for next Monday,” said Dave Coyle, the mission director. He tapped a remote and the screen changed to a matrix of potential mishaps and the likelihood of their occurrence. “You have a copy of this operational risk management matrix in your binders along with our first cut on abort options for the revised mission profile. What I need you to do is to flesh out the details.”
“This isn’t a mission. It’s not even footprints and flagpoles,” whispered Jerry Beaden to the man sitting to his left. The man snorted and Jerry regretted his whisper. Dave Coyle was not only the mission director but a close and personal friend doing his best to hold the center together and get some hardware into the sky.
“You have to land to plant a flag,” snickered the man.
“It’s the best we can do, Jerry,” said Dave Coyle.
Jerry looked up and felt his face flush with embarrassment. Dave had ears like a cat. The temperature in the room seemed to rise a few degrees. A few muttered agreements indicated he had allies in the room, which didn’t mean all that much. Technically, everyone in the room was an ally. No one really liked the mission, but it was the only game in town.
“This is the mission that’s economically and politically possible, let’s stay focused,” said Dave.
“Is a flyby really the best we can do?” Jerry looked around the table. There were more than a few new faces. NASA had lost a lot of talent to industry. One departing senior staffer had remarked to him that if you can’t make history then you better make money. The man had departed with a generous offer from Grumman and a lot of sadness.
“This is old ground. You’re not the only one that’s disappointed. Fortunately, I have a dozen unemployed astronauts to pick from. Do you want the mission or not?”
“Yes, I want it. It’s better than nothing,” said Jerry. He turned his attention back to the ORM matrix and Dave’s somber voice turned into a drone.
“I don’t see any abort-to-Mars scenarios,” said Jerry.
“The scenario was summarily dismissed. It doesn’t make sense to abort to Mars for a flyby mission. It would be a virtual death sentence,” said Dave.
“Not necessarily,” said Jerry. “After the transit maneuver we are committed to Mars one way or the other. It’s too energy intensive for an Earth return.”
“You’re preaching to the choir,” said Dave.
“Well, the next logical place to abort the mission is Mars. The original equipment manifest was designed for in situ survival.”
“Agreed, but any abort scenario would maroon a man on Mars indefinitely. We don’t have the resources to mount a timely rescue,” said Dave.
Heads swiveled back and forth as each man took turns speaking. “Garrison?” said Jerry looking at the pudgy Boeing representative.
“The other two landing vehicles and transit boosters are in deep preservation in the Huntsville facility. The launch boosters have been in sheltered storage at Boeing since the contract was cancelled.”
“That’s certainly enough hardware,” said Jerry.
“The sticking point is reconstituting the technical expertise to bring the hardware out of preservation and build the stack,” said the Boeing representative. “It’s all been laid off or reassigned, but then again, in this economy, you would be amazed at what can be done if you throw enough money at the problem.”
“The sticking point is the financial resources and political will,” corrected Dave.
“Hardware is the easy part.”
“How long would an astronaut be marooned for?” asked a support engineer.
“Three years minimum provided the decision is even made to rescue him,” said Dave. He checked his watch. “Let’s cut to the chase. Are we in agreement that an abort-to-Mars is a viable though not necessarily politically plausible scenario?”
Jerry watched the group nod in agreement. “It’s consistent with astronaut safety,” said Jerry. The magic words. With high-profile mishaps part of NASA’s history, nearly anything could be done if it was in the best interests of safety.
“Then let’s design for it. What I need is fully developed risk scenarios and resolution options regarding the proposed abort-to-Mars option. Thank you for attending.” Notebooks folded shut and chairs shuffled. People filed out of the room.
Jerry waited till the room was clear. “Dave, I’m sorry about my sarcasm. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“I know. Forget about it”
“I have an idea,” said Jerry.
“Close the door.”
II. Willing Accomplice
The gin and tonic went down smooth. Jerry placed the glass down on the coaster. It was his third one and he was feeling mellow. The waves rolled into the beach in no discernable pattern. A few teenage surfers practiced their skills in the confused surf. He laughed as one amateur took an unexpected header off his short board. Allegra Perricone-Beaden, his wife smiled back at him. By her smile he could tell she didn’t mind his drinking. He did it so rarely. Her two glasses of Zinfindel qualified as a knock-down drag-out rave for her.
He felt her hand wrap itself around his and he was surprised at the sudden warmth. He turned to the bartender. “Bobby, I got a question for you.”
“Another?”
He hoisted his glass, inspected it, and swirled the half-melted cubes. “No, I’m good.”
“Watcha need Jerry?”
“Who was the first American in space?”
“John Glenn.” Bobby dragged a damp cloth across the mahogany bar and smirked. “Dumb-ass astronaut, you’re supposed to know that,” he muttered. Bobby turned and tucked the damp cloth into the rear pocket of his Levi’s. He walked to the other side of the bar and leaned in close to the two female office workers that were the vanguard of the after-work crowd.
“My point exactly,” said Jerry to his wife. No one would remember a flyby mission.
“I’ll remember,” said Allegra. “You’ll be gone for eight months. Actually now that I think about it, that might be a good thing. I mean you still have direct deposit. I have power of attorney. I just might get that beach house and matching cabana boy to take care of the pool.”
“A cabana boy? I’ve got three empty seats on that ship. I just might take you along as part of my personal allotment.”
She twirled a lock of hair and sipped some more wine. Her face was slightly flushed. “What could we possibly do for eight months cooped up in that cozy capsule of yours? I know. We could do what has never been done.”
“Oh, it’s been done before,” said Jerry.
“Really now. You’ve never told me that astronaut story.”
“You’ll have to read about it in my memoirs.”
“If it was you, you won’t live long enough to write any memoirs. I have three Sicilian brothers.”
“I know . . . you’re from a small but influential crime family.” It was a standing joke. Her father was an engineer for Alenia Aeronautica and immigrated to work for Lockheed-Martin. Her brothers were all doctors or lawyers. He turned around to face the gray-blue Atlantic.
“I think I’m going to do it,” he said suddenly. Over the past month he had dropped hints knowing that she would be able to put the pieces together on her own.
“I know,” she said.
She sat up straighter changing from wife to engineer before his eyes.
“What about the supply manifest?”
“Substantially unchanged from the original mission, it’s been redesignated as emergency supplies,” said Jerry.
“Rover?”
“No. Dave didn’t think that he could possibly slip that by the suits.”
“I thought so.” She opened up her purse and took out a folded drawing and handed it too him.
He unfolded it. “What is it?”
“An early birthday present. You can use parts on your manifest, reconfigure them, and make yourself a bicycle. I think it would work. See how broad the seat is; it would easily fit a space-suited butt.”
“All the other astronauts married beauty queens and TV reporters. I had to marry an engineer.” He leaned into her and kissed her. “Thank you.”
“You need to come home to me,” said Allegra. Her eyes began to tear.
He reached over and wiped the corners of her eyes. “Write your congressmen.”
III. Abort-to-Mars
Allegra stood outside Dave Coyle’s office. She thought about walking away and waiting for the news but then changed her mind. She knocked.
“Come in.”
Dave sat at his oak desk watching the high-definition monitor that displayed the mission control floor and operational parameters of the Barsoom Express, the unofficial nickname of the Mars ship. The volume had been turned down and the normal mission chatter was a dull murmur. He stood.
“Do you have a few minutes?” asked Allegra.
“Yeah, Allegra, of course,” said Dave.
“Can I sit?”
“You don’t have to ask.”
“I’m nervous that’s all.” In three hours the possibility of an abort-to-Mars scenario would expire and the ship would be committed to a return to Earth. The Barsoom Express would not be able to shed enough velocity to capture Mars orbit. She half hoped that her husband would give up on history and come home, but that would be out of character for the man she married.
“If he is going to do it, he will do it soon to give the engineers down here time to recommend the option.” On cue, mission control erupted into controlled chaos. Supervisors stood and leaned over technicians’ shoulders. His phone rang. He answered and listened for a moment. “Verify that the pressure drop is genuine and not a sensor or indicator malfunction and convene the crisis team. I’ll be there in a moment.” He hung up the phone and turned to Allegra.
“He’s made his decision.”
She nodded and took a deep breath.
Dave got up rounded his desk to leave. He touched her shoulder gently as he walked to the door. Her husband would either die on Mars or force the United States to spend billions to bring him home.
IV. The Great Man Theory
The landing module had been optimized for the flyby. The engines that would have lifted the return portion of the ship had been removed for additional living space and weight savings. The ship could theoretically land but it could never lift from the surface of Mars. The fuel and oxidizer tanks were left in place and filled with cryogenic hydrogen ostensibly to be used as contingency fuel for the flyby or as raw material to manufacture water, oxygen, and methane on Mars.
Jerry sat in the pilot seat gazing at the thirty-six-inch flat-panel monitor that had been set such that it seemed to be a cockpit window. Six smaller multipurpose screens and a few backup analog gauges were mounted below. The oxygen reserve tanks still indicated full. A secondary screen displayed the false data relayed to mission control.
He could imagine what was going on back at mission control. Engineers were trying to interpret the data, decide if it was glitched or not. The crisis team was halfway assembled and soon they would contact him and he would have to corroborate the lie.
Does it matter to be the first? In the grand scheme of things it probably didn’t. Sooner or later, Mars would be explored and perhaps even colonized.
“Barsoom, this is Houston. We have indications of a breach in your primary O2 tank. We need to know what you’re seeing and have you take a direct tank reading.”
Three years alone. No, not really alone. He had routine mission communications, private calls with his family, and his public blog. He had thousands of hours of entertainment and books electronically stored. He would be able to stay involved with the Earth so it wasn’t exactly the man-in-the-lifeboat situation that was described in scenario-development meetings.
“Houston, this is Barsoom. I’ve taken direct readings. The primary storage tank has vented. I’m standing by for recommendations.” He was amazed at how easy it was to lie.
Is this sacrifice or selfishness? The boundaries blurred. Does it really matter who is first?
Yes it matters, he answered himself.
It matters to me and maybe, just maybe, everyone else.
V. Done Deal
Allegra took a seat next to Dave. She knew her presence in the room was unprecedented and unwelcomed. She didn’t care. If they were going to make her leave they were going to have to tell her and the only person who would do that was Dave.
“Maybe she shouldn’t be here,” said the flight supervisor. The man fidgeted uncomfortably. It was an unspoken rule that astronaut family was royalty.
“She’s his wife,” said Dave. “If anyone has a right to be here, it’s her.”
“I didn’t mean . . . it’s just . . .” stammered the flight supervisor.
“It’s okay. What are you recommending?”
“We are recommending an abort-to-Mars. We need a four-minute engine burn at full throttle.” He checked his watch. “And we need it in twenty-three minutes to capture orbit in six weeks.”
“Or,” said Dave.
“No other real option given the data we have. Primary O2 tank is completely depleted. We have sufficient reserves and scrubbers to reach Mars where we can keep him alive for about three and half years or we can get a corpse back in three months.”
Allegra winced at the man’s blunt statement. As an engineer she appreciated the no-nonsense purpose behind it; as the wife of the subject at hand it was a dagger in her heart.
“Hydrogen boil off?” asked Dave.
“Within expected parameters. We have sufficient quantities to manufacture oxygen and water in situ.”
“That’s good. Then the abort option is a consensus decision?”
Heads nodded around the room.
He turned to Allegra. “Allegra, we need to reschedule your private communication time until the burn is complete.”
She nodded. Anxiety warmed her. She felt her breathing quicken and she hoped no one would notice. The last thing these people needed was a distraction. They were all acting in good faith. She needed to play her part, but she didn’t know what her part was: anxious wife or sly accomplice.
“Let’s get to work. We have twenty-one minutes to make this happen,” said Dave. “And I have to call the administrator.”
The crisis team broke up to coordinate the abort-to-Mars.
“I’m going to sit here a moment, Dave,” said Allegra. The room emptied quickly and quietly as people returned to their work stations to address the crisis. She took another deep calming breath. When her husband had deployed in the navy she was a cruise widow, left behind by the needs of the navy, now she was a Mars widow, left behind by choice.
“Here, drink this.”
She turned and a ponytailed man with the look of tech support about him handed her a glass of water. “Thank you.”
“I’ve been a data analyst for twelve years,” said ponytail man.
The man wore a NASA standard uniform circa 1970s: white short-sleeve button-down, black pants, paisley tie, and a no-fooling pocket protector. She couldn’t help but smile.
He pulled out a chair one removed from her and sat down. “They think that just because you’re into computers you’re socially stupid, but I watch people. I can read between the lines. I’ve seen you and your husband around. He wouldn’t leave you for so long without letting you know.”
“What are you suggesting?” she said quietly.
“I’m suggesting that everyone here is looking at processed data, just what the screen says. You and Dave seem like you’ve had a while to prepare for this or you’re both really cool cucumbers. Oh yeah, and the raw data stream that I monitor indicates the oxygen tank is full.”
“What do you want?” It was the obvious question. Was she being set up for blackmail?
“Nothing, I’ve altered the archived raw data files. His tank is empty like it should be and no one will ever be able to prove otherwise unless they go to Mars. Maybe this NASA thing will last long enough that I can work my way up to the big table.” He rapped the faux-wood table top with his knuckles. He pulled black-rimmed glasses from his pocket and put them on his face. They slid down the bridge of his nose and he pushed them back up. He blinked to focus.
“Thank you,” he said. “I would have hated to go into game design when real life is so much more interesting.”
VI. Trickle-Up Effect
Barlowe DiFate, NASA administrator, paced outside the Oval Office. His Armani suit caressed his skin like a lover. It didn’t comfort him. He had never felt out of control before. Powerful forces jerked other people around, not him. He was a career bureaucrat, one step below politician, but far more lucrative with half the risk. He had fewer constituents to please and most of the time he only had one constituent to please. His constituent was going to be pissed.
The door opened and the President’s chief of staff, Gabrielle Hernandez glared at him. “The President will see you now.”
He crossed the threshold into the room
“Barlowe,” said the President. “I’ve heard rumors. What’s happening?”
Presidents don’t hear rumors, thought Barlowe. They receive intelligence. Hernandez had probably poisoned the well. “We’ve had trouble with the Mars mission.”
“What sort?”
“A rupture in an oxygen tank.”
“What is the plan? Bring ’em home early?”
“That is not possible, Mr. President. The ship is committed to landing on the planet.”
“So we have an accidental Mars landing. Barlowe, when you screw up you screw up big. Okay, don’t get me wrong here but what does that mean to the astronaut . . . and me?”
“It means that this country commits billions to rescuing the man or he dies. The political fallout is beyond my purview,” said Barlowe.
“I’ll make it your purview, Barlowe. I am beginning to regret I ever appointed you.”
Now he was down by one constituent. “I’ll have a more comprehensive brief for you tomorrow morning.”
The President nodded indicated he was dismissed.
VII. Smiles Across the Miles
Mars loomed. The angry red planet filled the viewer. It filled the viewer ominously. How could it fill the viewer any way but ominously? Jerry’s initial fascination turned to fatalism. The planet’s reflected light filled the cockpit with its redness and at the moment it felt like a march down a dim prison corridor. Soon he would land and the door would slam shut and it just might never open again. He pushed regrets away. They were pointless now.
Mars vanished and his wife’s face appeared on the monitor window. She smiled three minutes ago and the image just reached him. He stretched his hand out across the millions of miles and touched her face. He felt better.
VIII. Cathedrals in Space
“One hundred sixty billion dollars? You want me to go to Congress and request an additional one hundred sixty billion dollars? Have you been watching C-SPAN lately, David? Have you been watching CNN? I am getting raked over the coals for losing a man. I am up to my ass in inquiries and panels, all of them trying to figure out where I screwed up,” said Barlowe.
“I’m sorry. It’s not your fault, but it is your job,” said Dave. “And he isn’t lost. We know exactly where he is.”
“Don’t tell me what my damn job is,” grumbled Barlowe.
“And that’s one hundred sixty billion dollars plus the inevitable cost overruns and delays. Sell it as a welfare program for engineers. They have to eat, too, you know.”
“Sarcasm. That’s exactly what I need right now. That’s going to go over great on the Hill.”
“Why shouldn’t it? Congress has bailed out every other business enterprise in this country. Why shouldn’t scientists and engineers get a helping hand? At least they’re making something instead of just consuming. We’re building cathedrals,” said Dave.
“I wish I knew what the hell you are talking about,” said Barlowe.
“Medieval Europeans would build cathedrals to house relics of saints. The cathedrals would employ thousands of craftsmen, merchants, and farmers for decades. Do you know how many pizza shops, laundromats, and used-car dealerships depend upon NASA facilities?”
“Okay, I get it. I’m just pissed,” said Barlowe.
“Barlowe, pull out the stops. If they don’t appropriate the funds make him a martyr, make his wife a widow, and make her unborn son fatherless.”
“Oh my God, you’re kidding me. She’s pregnant.”
“She got pregnant just before the launch, last night on Earth kind of thing.”
“This is starting to sound like a conspiracy,” said Barlowe.
You have no idea, thought David.
IX. A Reason to Live
Olympus Mons rose in the eastern horizon like an immense frozen wave. The Barsoom had landed in a field of odd vertical wind sculpted stones that turned out to be remnants of igneous rock. They peppered the landscape like bizarre chess pieces. The Martian sands in their infinite graduations flowed like slow-motion water around the base of the stones. It was a natural Zen garden and the marks of his presence were polished smooth within a day. An American flag fluttered in the carbon dioxide breeze. Footprints and flagpoles after all, thought Jerry.
He walked back from his modest power farm in his filthy Mars-stained spacesuit with his daily survival chores more or less complete. Power was life and to that end he had cleaned dust from solar fabric stretched out over aluminum poles and lubricated the three lightweight wind turbines. His power farm augmented the ship’s thermal decay reactor that kept the Barsoom’s lithium batteries charged. He entered the lock and brushed himself off. He turned on the vacuum filters that pulled the air downward as he swept himself clean. Satisfied, he shut down the vacuum and cycled breathable air into the lock. He undressed in the chill utility room and climbed the ladder to the main deck. He stopped for a drink of Mars-flavored water and then continued his climb to the flight deck.
He waited for the monitor to come to life.
“Jerry, I have a surprise for you,” said Allegra. “Please don’t get upset.”
Her image blurred and the screen turned blue with momentary signal loss. She reappeared frozen in time and then the image skipped. His private fear was that she would grow weary of waiting, whereas he had no choice but to wait. Her image came back.
“Why would I get upset?”
He waited for the reply and looked around in mild disgust. The ship looked like a college dorm room. He was becoming increasingly sloppy with his work schedule, less fastidious about his appearance, and short-tempered with surface ops staff. His pointless unscheduled bike rides on Mars were a constant source of frustration for staff members responsible for his every movement.
“You’re going to be a father.” She stood up and showed her belly. “I found out four weeks after the launch.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want you distracted. Are you happy?”
“Yeah, I’m happy. Well, I don’t know how to feel. I wish I was home with you.”
“I wish you were home too. Jerry, you need to pull yourself together and do things right. This is bigger than you. This is bigger than Mars. You’re going to have a son.”
“That’s wonderful.” How many NASA shrinks had gamed out this conversation with her? No one wanted to freak out the marooned astronaut. He silently admitted it was mostly his fault that a lot of the conversations he had with Earth personnel other than his wife were as tense as a hostage negotiation.
“I testified before Congress and was interviewed on Good Morning America. I think they are going to pass the appropriations bill.”
“Awesome.”
“And the Europeans are sending you a care package. Their rover mission was replaced by a dumb capsule.”
“Out of the goodness of their hearts?”
“You are famous, but not that famous. NASA cut a data-sharing deal with them. They get access to all raw data you generate and a seat at Mission Control to observe surface operations. You get twenty pounds personal allotment so think about what you want. You should get it by Christmas.”
“I love you, Allegra. Take care of my son.”
“I will. I love you too, Jerry.”
IX. Pigs in Space
“Your bacon should be arriving in four days,” said Dave.
“Good. I miss it almost as much as sex,” said Jerry.
“The French had a hard time believing that you wanted twenty pounds of bacon.”
“It’s not that turkey bacon, is it? Real bacon comes from pigs,” said Jerry.
“It’s the real deal. The NASA dieticians had conniption fits and I am up to my ass in protest letters from PETA.”
“Tell them I grow my own alfalfa sprouts.” Indeed, the lower deck was a riot of food plants rooted in pale amber gel. He grew enough to have a salad every two days or so.
“The damage has been done. We’ve already exported meat eaters to other worlds. Anyway, Allegra is doing a wonderful job on the talk show and political circuits. She knows how to keep the pressure on the powerful without alienating them. She is a great public speaker. I swear, I think they’re a little bit afraid of her.”
“Good, I’ve always been a bit afraid of her,” said Jerry.
“The mission design for your rescue has been finalized. The first launch will have a four-man crew including a French geologist. It is payback for the care package. The second will be an unmanned mission with high-endurance facilities. Belkow Aerospace has sold NASA three inflatable structures. We’re pulling out all the stops down here but the earliest window is four months away. We’re working hard to make it, but I don’t want to make any promises at this point.”
“I know you’re doing your best.”
X. Dehydrated Water: Just Add Water
They can put a man on Mars, but they can’t make self-cleaning underwear, thought Jerry. The washing machine had washed its last and the nearest laundromat was a long way away. Martian grit had scoured the seals such that the machine would no longer hold water. Anyway, it was a travesty to even compare the microwave-sized machine to the earthbound behemoths that handily managed sixteen pairs of blue jeans at a time. He found it mildly disturbing to be scrubbing stains out of his skivvies in his kitchen sink knowing that he would drink the very same water next week. Some things didn’t get mentioned in astronaut school.
The care package had arrived on target. The French had sent him a bottle of champagne. The Italians sent extra-virgin olive oil, tomato sauce, and pasta. In all, he received about sixty pounds of gifts from various nations. The most precious thing was a lock of hair from his son’s first haircut.
NASA was completely pragmatic and sent various gaskets and seals, tubes of epoxy that looked suspiciously like JB Weld, rolls of Mars-resistant duct tape, spheres of hydrogen, and various gaskets, filters, back-up software, and other consumables. Even the packing material could be used. It was made from vitamin- and mineral-laced rice pressed into cardboard. He hoped it wouldn’t get bad enough to eat the boxes.
He squeezed out his underwear and draped it over a length of fiber-optic cable stretched between bulkhead fittings, sighed in disgust, and contemplated the work he needed to do. He was behind in his public relations blog and the “Ask the astronaut” email account. Earthbound geologists had been debating a green streak in a rock formation and wanted him to take yet another sample. He sat down as heavily as he could in the light gravity and looked at the ruddy dust on the floor. He was behind in his housekeeping and that had potentially dangerous consequences. What would all the other astronauts think of him when they came in twelve weeks?
He sneezed explosively and wiped his nose on his sleeve and became conscious of the subtle ache in his bones and the tickle in the back of his throat.
XI. Sick of Mars
“Dave, we need to know what he has,” said Trang Nyugen, Director of Surface Operations for the second mission.
“We don’t know yet,” said Dave. “All we can do is rely upon his reports.”
“His symptoms are consistent with the flu or a very bad cold. It doesn’t appear to be life threatening, just oddly persistent,” said the flight surgeon. “I don’t think it is that serious.”
“Your medical opinion aside, it is dangerously serious. To survive for so long he has had to do everything perfect every day and now he is sick. There is no redundancy in the human component of this mission,” said Dave.
“I understand the gravity of the situation. I really do. What I meant to say is that it is my opinion that he has a biosphere syndrome.”
“What do you mean?”
“Basically, his personal ecology is out of whack. The biosphere experiments were the first large-scale experiments in closed ecologies. The general consensus is that the effort was flawed, but we did learn that closed systems are hard to regulate. The biosphere was plagued by insect swarms, and out-of-control molds and fungi. My point is: Jerry didn’t go to Mars alone. His entire body is home to a multitude of bacteria, prions, viruses, and mites. The system is closed and his body is having a more difficult time adjusting to imbalances. Additionally, he is under an immense amount of stress, which has compromised his immune system. My best guess is that a simple rhinovirus finally got a toehold.”
“What if it’s not? What if it’s some alien virus lying dormant in Martian soil just waiting to colonize a warm wet human body,” said Nguyen.
“Yeah, the Andromeda-strain theory. Highly unlikely. The odds are astronomical that an alien organism would be compatible with our physiology,” said the flight surgeon.
“No matter,” said Dave. “We can’t take the chance of contaminating the other astronauts with whatever he has. In three weeks we are putting four more men on Mars. We’ll take a wait and see approach. If he doesn’t get better by landing day we will revisit the matter.”
XII. Home Stretch
The wind howled. At least it howled as much as a Martian wind could howl. He found the sound and the rasp of sand on the hull oddly reassuring. He rolled and felt the chill of Mars through the hull and it nearly aroused him from the thin state between wakefulness and sleep. He dreamed of a field of baroque stone rockets festooned with balconies, sharply chined spires, and parapets all held to the pale-yellow Martian sky by flying buttresses. He tossed his sweat-soaked blanket aside and shivered in the cold. He dragged himself to full consciousness and tried to open his eyes but they seemed to be glued shut. He felt around and found his NASA approved self-balancing sippy cup and drank water flavored with grit and iron. He felt his way to the small sink, wet a facecloth, and began to clean his eyes till he could open them. He was immediately aware that he felt better, just the slightest bit achy and ravenously hungry. He stopped the sink and filled it with warm water. He stripped off his clothes and pulled off the telemetry leads that NASA insisted he wear. An alarm chimed softly and he silenced it. He began to sponge himself clean. With a reasonably fresh uniform on, he went into the main cabin and noticed immediately that the mission clock indicated two days later than the last time he remembered. He climbed the ladder to the flight deck and sat heavily in the pilot’s chair. The camera eye was on.
“Good morning, Jerry,” said Dave. “We’ve been waiting for you. You have no idea how relieved we are.”
“Good morning.”
“The flight surgeon tells me they lost biomedical telemetry. Is there anything wrong?”
“No. I broke telemetry when I washed off. I feel much better.”
“Allegra is here with Alex. They’ve been camped out in my office.”
The screen filled with his wife and son. Her smile lit up the dim light inside the capsule flight deck.
“Hey baby, good morning. I miss you. Do you feel better?” said Allegra. “You look so much better. We were worried about you. Say hi to daddy.” She waved her son’s hand at the camera. Alex grinned at the screen.
“I feel a lot better. How is Alex the Great doing?”
“He had a cold just like you, but he is feeling better now. He can almost hold himself up. “
“Allegra, I’m so tired. I want to come home.”
“Soon. You’ll be home soon. Dave needs to talk to you about changes to the meeting protocols.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
Dave’s face appeared on the screen. “The Tsiolkovski is in orbit and they’ve locked onto the beacon you planted. After their landing checks, Dr. Carroway is going to disembark and make his way to you. You need to transfer over your sample swabs and then he is going to take some new ones. He will give you a broad spectrum antiviral and antibacterial. He won’t be removing his spacesuit. It should take a couple of days for him to culture the samples and identify what you had. If it’s garden-variety cold or flu then you guys can share environments.”
“What if it’s not, Dave?”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. In the mean time keep an eye out at about 13:35. They should be commencing their descent.”
“I will, thanks, Dave.”
“Houston, out.”
The monitor defaulted to its exterior panoramic image of the strange vertical stones and the flowing sands.
XIII. Tsiolkovski Descending
The Tsiolkovski fell like an angel, an incandescent streak, racing across the sky becoming brighter and closer. Massive white parachutes blossomed and the ship slowed. At three hundred feet the parachutes separated and the engines ignited. For a moment, the ship was obscured in a roiling cloud of exhaust and dust. Dust devils swirled up and wheeled away from the ship. He saw a flash of silver hull through the cloud. He could feel the roar of engines and the vibration in the soles of his boots. The engines cut off and he could hear the squeal of metal on metal as the ship settled. The light wind carried away the plume of dust. Though they would be eager, it would be a few hours before they were ready to disembark. With nothing to do, he mounted his bicycle and pedaled to the parachutes before they got too far away. Nothing was thrown away on Mars.
XIV. Cleared for Contact
Three days had passed since his first meeting with Dr. Carroway and now he watched Captain Nathan Nesius and Michael Carroll approach in their clean white Mars excursion suits. They splashed through one of the many puddles of fine talcum powderlike dust. They disappeared from view as they left the camera’s field of vision. He heard the airlock cycle as he waited impatiently at the inner door. It cycled open.
Both of the suited astronauts faced each other and unfastened the neck-ring latches on each other’s helmets.
Captain Nathan Nesius lifted his helmet off and hung it on a wall peg. “Jerry Beaden, I presume?”
“Captain, it is good to see you,” said Jerry.
Nesius took off his gloves with a twist of his wrist, careful not to touch the frigid metal wrist rings with unprotected hands. He peeled of his under gloves and then offered his hand to Jerry.
Jerry shook Michael Carroll’s hand next. They had been in the same astronaut class.
“Jerry, my brother, I like what you’ve done with the place and what the hell is that smell,” said Michael. “We should have brought a fifty-five-gallon drum of Febreeze.”
“I’ve been recycling my sweat for two years,” said Jerry. “You’ll get used to it. What did the Doc say?”
“Martian fever, you’re doomed,” said Michael.
“Common cold in an uncommon place,” corrected Captain Nesius. “Jerry, you’ve received your orders from Houston. Do we need to clarify any points?”
Nesius was more senior than Jerry and should have been assigned to a Mars mission. He dropped out to take care of his ailing mother. Jerry imagined that ordeal had been resolved. “No, you’re in charge.”
“Good. Michael is your new roommate until the resupply module lands and the inflatables are set up.” He took an appraising look around but restrained from commenting. “He’ll help you clean up a bit and do some maintenance. You’ve ranged pretty far from the Barsoom and I won’t allow that anymore. Everyone stays on mission and no one goes anywhere alone. First orders are to suit up. We’re going back to Tsio for a party. It’s surf and turf.”
XV. Freefalling
Jerry pressed his forehead against an insulated window of the International Space Station. At one time the window offered an unobstructed view of Earth but now the planet was partially obscured by trusses and panels.
“Jerry, it’s time,” said Colonel Makarov. “The Soyuz has been prepped and you should be in your own bed in twenty-four hours.” The Russian colonel tucked his legs and gently kicked off the wall. Jerry followed much less elegantly through a gauntlet of the sixteen crewmembers of the ISS. Captain Nesius floated at the Soyuz hatch.
“Safe landing,” said Captain Nesius. “When the rest of us get down we’ll go to that beach bar you like so much.”
XVI. Fallout
“Have you seen this book?” asked the President.
“Yes, sir, but I haven’t read it,” said Barlowe DiFate, NASA administrator.
“I haven’t read it either, but I’ve been briefed. It’s a New York Times bestseller and it makes me look like an idiot.” He picked up the hardback copy of The Martian Conspiracy and waved it in Barlowe’s face. He turned to Dave. “Is there anything to this?” He held his finger under a jacket cover blurb that read, “Based on a true story!”
“It’s a techno-thriller, sir, the technician who wrote it has published a few science fiction stories. It seems credible only because the man has insider knowledge. I’ve read it and it’s just entertainment,” said Dave.
“Maybe because you come off as one of the sneaky little heroes,” said the President. “There are going to be inquiries.”
“Because of a fiction book?” said Barlowe incredulously.
“Yes, because of the damn book. It reads too well,” said the President. “Or so I’ve been told. Is there any way to shoot holes in this guy’s scenario? Maybe we can smother this baby in the cradle.”
“Well, yes,” said Dave. “Send a team to Mars and do an engineering analysis of the Barsoom. We know the quantity of consumables he used. We just need to see what is left. The calculations should be straightforward.”
“Another one hundred sixty billion to send a mission to Mars just to find out we never should have gone in the first place. Are you crazy?”
“We could ask the Russians and Chinese to do it for us. They’re sending a mission and their planned landing site is within a kilometer of ours,” said Dave.
“What the hell?”
“It makes perfect sense. They have a ready-made base and a supply of resources if something goes wrong with their landing. They’ll have access to the Barsoom, the Tsiolkovski, the resupply module, and the inflatables. They’re even using some of our suppliers for fittings to ensure compatibility.”
“Didn’t your genius astronauts lock the front doors?”
“No, sir, they are no locks on the doors. Our space treaties and common decency require us to render aid to a distressed astronaut whatever the circumstances. If you want to keep the Russians and Chinese at arm’s distance then we need to beat them to the site or we can internationalize the mission.”
“That last idea might have some merit,” said the President. “All right, I’ll talk to you when I need to.” He waved his hand in dismissal.
Barlowe and Dave got up from the chairs and left the office.
“Why do I think you and Jerry are building this cathedral out of lies? I’ve got half a mind to believe that book,” said Barlowe.
You’ve got half a mind, thought Dave. “Sometimes, the desperately faithful would cling to a few finger bones or wishful lies and they would surround these things with gorgeous stone monuments that were the height of engineering technology for the time. Centuries later we marvel at their audacity and scarcely care if the relics are genuine or not.” He remembered seeing the Ares V stack rising from early morning fog the day of the launch. The machine speared the sky like a cathedral’s spire. “Do you want to build a cathedral or tear one down?”
XVII. Reentry
Arkalyk, Kazakstan; Moscow, Russia; London, England; Cape Kennedy, United States. Jerry stepped onto the boarding stairs of the extended-range Sukoi Superjet and saw his wife for the first time in nearly three years. He squinted in the late morning light and willed himself to breath slower. He stepped down as fast as he could, which he had to admit was not very fast. He felt as if his heart would explode out of his chest from fatigue and excitement. His knees and lower back ached.
He saw her.
Her hair was longer and she seemed a bit thinner. Alex the Great wore a NASA baseball cap with the Barsoom mission patch stitched on. She broke away from the small crowd of perhaps twenty people that were too important to deny and met him halfway up the ramp.
He took them both into his arms and the crowd clapped.
“I missed you,” said Allegra.
“I missed you too,” said Jerry. He kissed her.
“Alex, this is your daddy.”
Alex the Great looked at his father for the first time in real life, sleepy eyed in the gathering warmth, and yawned.
“I don’t think he’s that impressed.”
“He will be one day,” said Allegra.
They descended the remaining steps together, inseparable.
“Welcome home,” said Dave as he offered his hand.
“It is so good to be back,” said Jerry.
A profusion of hands clasped his hand and clapped him on the back.
“Thank you,” said Jerry to everyone that came into his field of view.
After what seemed an eternity under a tent set up for the arrival, Dave stood on a chair.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming. As you can imagine Jerry is eager to spend some time with his family. All of you have received tickets for the formal reception next week. I’m going to let his wife take him home now.” The crowd applauded as Dave stepped down from the chair and steered Jerry and Allegra away.
“She has your schedule. You have seven days and then it’s back to the grind,” said Dave.
“Dave, I have about ninety days accumulated leave.”
“Earning leave is your right, taking it is a privilege. You have physical therapy, grip-and-grin meetings, and inquiries into the cause of your accident. NASA has some momentum here and I am not about to lose it. We have a narrow window of opportunity to internationalize the Mars missions and you have a role to play. For now, let Allegra take you home. You have lot of catching up to do.”
“Take your son,” said Allegra.
He took him and placed the sleeping boy on his shoulder. He could smell the sun in his dirty-blond hair and feel the rapid patter of his heartbeat. Allegra took his hand and they walked to the parking lot. She led him to her silver Audi A-6 hybrid turbo-diesel. She opened the rear door so he could put his son in the car seat and the smell of fine leather and exquisite luxury engineering wafted out. The car oozed extreme comfort and power. He strapped his son in and opened his own door.
“How can we afford this thing?” He slid into the passenger seat and let it cradle him. He sighed in extreme comfort. “Never mind, we’re keeping it.”
“You have sixteen messages from mother-in-law,” said the sedan. She touched a button on the steering wheel to silence the car’s messages.
“You’re mine for the rest of the day, honey. Our family will be flying in later in the week,” said Allegra. She started the car and all he heard was a slight purr. As they drove he reached over and took her hand.
“You’re going the wrong way.”
“No, I’m not.”
The roadway was lined with signs and well-wishers hoping to glimpse the astronaut. After four miles the crowd thinned out and he watched the world roll by. It rained briefly, a typical afternoon shower in Florida, and he marveled at the sight of water falling from the sky.
She pulled into a driveway that wrapped around a sand dune. “Surprise, this is where we live now.”
“How?”
“We’re commodities. I’ve written two books and I give speeches all over the country. I have a fashion line for crying out loud and you . . . you’re an action figure.”
“I never should have given you power of attorney.”
“Best investment you ever made.” She parked the car underneath the beach house’s pilings.
“I’ll get Alex. Here’s the key. The alarm code is 2024.”
“The year we were married.” He climbed the steps to the porch and put the key in the door, feeling like an intruder. He opened the door and stepped inside the foyer. He silenced the alarm chime and walked into his unfamiliar living room.
“Jerry, sit down,” said Allegra. She closed the front door with a nudge from her heel and let the baby’s bag slide off her shoulder to the granite countertop. “I’ll put Alex to bed and get you . . . ?”
“Water, please.”
She disappeared into a bedroom.
Jerry opened up French doors overlooking the beach. Three-foot Atlantic breakers crashed onto the sandy shore and retreated with a foamy hiss. Sea oats waved in the dunes. He sank into a cushioned wicker chair. He was surrounded by miracles.
He heard the clank of ice cubes and then the sound of running water from the faucet. It ran for what seemed an unusually long time and he felt a bubbling flush of panic. On Mars that much water would keep him alive for two days, maybe three.
She crossed the room, handed him the glass, and pulled a chair to sit in front of him.
“You’re home,” she said.
He had forgotten how blue her eyes were. He had never even considered how much she had sacrificed for his navy and then his NASA career. It was time to stop and build something beautiful and earthbound with her. He felt a twinge in his lower back. Earth gravity was cruel. “When does my physical therapy begin?”
She leaned close and whispered in his ear. “Right after you finish your glass of water.”
Mike Barretta is a retired U.S. Naval Aviator having deployed across the world flying the SH-60B Seahawk helicopter. He currently works for a defense contractor as a maintenance test pilot. He is married to Mary Jane Player and they have five children. He holds a Master’s degree in Strategic Planning and International Negotiation from the Naval Post-Graduate School, and a Master’s in English from the University of West Florida. When the obligations of the day are over, he writes. His stories have appeared in Baen’s Universe, Redstone, New Scientist, Orson Scott Card’s InterGalactic Medicine Show and various anthologies such as War Stories: New Military Science Fiction, The Year’s Best Military SF and Space Opera, Apex, and the Young Explorer’s Adventure Guide.